"Breaking News: Hundreds of werewolves gather in Diagon Alley—Vaughn Weasley's award ceremony descends into chaos!"
"Fudge's reputation in ruins—beaten by Wizengamot elders at the ceremony!"
"Werewolf Affairs Committee: A path to justice, or a coup d'état? The tangled tale of Dumbledore and Fudge!"
"Vaughn Weasley: The underestimated boy, praised by werewolves for his compassion, intelligence, and generosity—reportedly footing the bill for their recent survival needs!"
"Or is Vaughn Weasley a cunning snake in a child's skin? Witness the army of savage werewolves he brought forth! The Wolfsbane Potion—savior of wizardkind, or bait for Weasley's ambitions?"
"Is Dumbledore the kindly Headmaster of Hogwarts—or the White Dark Lord, masterminding a quiet rebellion?"
In the dead of night, inside the Headmaster's office, Vaughn let out a burst of laughter as he read the headlines.
He poked his head out to glance at Dumbledore, who was fiddling with a bowl of sweets.
"Did you see that, Albus?" Vaughn teased. "They're calling you the White Dark Lord. That reporter has guts."
Dumbledore's beard twitched. He frowned and said nothing.
He was deeply troubled. Back when he agreed to help Vaughn push for the creation of the Werewolf Affairs Committee, he'd accepted Vaughn's condition of involving the International Confederation of Wizards to minimize internal resistance.
He knew there would be criticism—but not this much.
He had underestimated the impact of his reputation. As the most powerful wizard of the age, even the smallest of his moves sent waves through the magical world—waves not easily quelled, even by hiding within Hogwarts.
People dissected every one of his actions—because they mattered.
It had only been half a day since the incident.
From the moment the werewolves appeared in Diagon Alley, the original purpose of the award ceremony had become irrelevant. The Wizengamot had yet to respond to Vaughn's proposal, and the ceremony had been left unfinished.
As both the wizarding world's legislature and highest court, the Wizengamot held immense power—but it was loosely organized. Any decision it made was binding on the entire magical community.
That was exactly why Vaughn had chosen the award ceremony as the stage for his proposal. At no other time could he gather so many members of the Wizengamot. Without their support, the Werewolf Affairs Committee would be impossible.
But such immense power required strict procedures to function.
Every decision had to be debated and voted on by the full assembly—a process that could take weeks.
Dumbledore popped a Cockroach Cluster into his mouth, his mood slightly lifted.
"Amelia has already sent invitations to the entire Wizengamot. They're planning to hold a full session in two weeks. You should get your letter tomorrow, seeing as you're now a member yourself."
Vaughn shrugged. "Just an ordinary member."
"Ordinary members don't cause this much trouble…" Dumbledore muttered, massaging his temples. "Are those werewolves still in London? What's your plan for them?"
"I told Remus to take them into Muggle society for a while. Many of them are Squibs or were born to Muggle families. With no risk of transformation outside the full moon, they can survive there. Work. Live."
He then stretched out his hand toward Dumbledore.
"Give me 5,000 Galleons."
Dumbledore froze. "…What?"
"Five. Thousand. Galleons. The Committee hasn't been officially formed yet, and I need enough Wolfsbane Potion for at least two full moons. Come on, White Dark Lord—you're not expecting me to cover everything, are you?"
"…"
Dumbledore was speechless—but he couldn't just sit and do nothing.
Muttering to himself, he slowly got up, shuffled into his room, and came back with a coin pouch.
Vaughn took the enchanted pouch—only palm-sized and weightless despite the fortune inside—and stuffed it casually into his satchel.
"Don't feel bad. You've been living here for decades without spending a Knut. You might as well use your wealth for something meaningful."
"...Out. I'm tired."
Unbothered, Vaughn patted his bag and left the office.
Following the award ceremony, nearly every wizarding paper ran emergency editions. The topics of werewolves, Fudge's disgrace, and the Werewolf Affairs Committee dominated the headlines.
It put Vaughn in a great mood.
That had been his goal all along—to stir up enough noise that the public could no longer ignore the plight of the werewolves… while also making a name for himself.
Praise or criticism—it didn't matter. Infamy was still fame.
And with the monthly reputation point settlement coming on January 1st, Vaughn was certain his stats were about to spike.
With anticipation, he decided to take it easy the next two days—rest, recharge, and get ready.
After Vaughn left, a snide voice echoed from one of the office portraits.
"Foolish old man," sneered Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black. "You got played like a harp by a twelve-year-old. Lost your spotless reputation—and now your money, too!"
"Regret it yet? Serves you right! I said from the start that boy was bad news. But you lot—always insisting I was the one corrupting him. A schemer like him? At twelve? Please!"
As Phineas ranted, Dumbledore stared silently at the fireplace. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
"At least he's doing something meaningful."
He could tell—Vaughn's sympathy for the werewolves was real. Perhaps not deeply emotional, but certainly sincere.
Otherwise, why antagonize Fudge? If he only wanted fame, siding with the Minister would've been far easier.
Only genuine sympathy could've driven Vaughn to push so hard for the Committee.
For that alone, Dumbledore felt the loss of his reputation—and 5,000 Galleons—was worth it.
Phineas was livid. "Foolish! Deluded! Being a headmaster alongside idiots like you is the greatest disgrace of my death!"
Dumbledore let him rant… until Phineas went too far.
"Phineas," he said softly, "no matter what you say, I won't let you leave. Sirius Black is guilty. Azkaban is where he belongs. Stop trying to break him out."
Phineas froze.
Then, quietly, he wept.
"He's the last of the Blacks… our bloodline will end, Albus…"
"…Mourn if you must, Phineas. But you're dead. Leave the living to their fate."
The Next Morning – Gryffindor Tower
Harry was jolted awake by Seamus Finnigan's shout.
"Merlin's beard—did you see this? Ron, Ron, did you see what your brother did yesterday?!"
Groggily reaching for his glasses, Harry glanced over just in time to see Ron leap out of bed, red-faced.
"I told you—don't call me Ronnie! Bloody hell, I'm going to kill Fred and George someday!"
Ron had been feeling down ever since he wasn't invited to Vaughn's ceremony.
The twins, ever ready to tease, had shouted encouragement in the crowded common room, using his hated nickname and claiming that the gap between him and Vaughn was tiny—only the size of a Bill, a Charlie, and a Percy.
Thanks to them, the whole school now knew his nickname.
Worse—Malfoy had been present.
At dinner, the blond had pranced around the Slytherin table shrieking "Ronnie! Ronnie!" in a falsetto. Ron had nearly lost his appetite.
Seamus didn't care.
He slammed a newspaper into Ron's face.
Annoyed, Ron yanked it away—ready to crumple it—but the image on the front page stopped him cold.
Against a backdrop of dark snow and swirling wind, Vaughn stood proudly at the center of a grand ceremonial hall.
Tattered werewolves surrounded him, gazing up with adoration.
Dumbledore, a stern-faced witch (Amelia Bones), and dozens of purple-robed dignitaries stood at the edge of the crowd, solemnly bearing witness.
The photo's framing was perfect—and made sure to include a very distressed Fudge and his plump assistant in her iconic pink cardigan, squished into a corner, helpless and panicked.
Ron's eyes filled with unshed tears.
Damn it!
It really did look impressive…
Harry peeked over and let out a soft, "Whoa. That's… kinda epic."
Ron sniffed. "It's alright, I guess…"
Despite his grumbling, he devoured every word of the article.
"A New Star Rises—The Ministry Begins to Crumble!"
The massive red exclamation mark was impossible to ignore.
On the other side of the room, Seamus was now loudly reading the article aloud to Dean and a sleepy-eyed Neville.
"The Wolfsbane Potion has become Vaughn Weasley's weapon against the Ministry! With sharp insight, he exposed systemic flaws… Meanwhile, Cornelius Fudge, holding high office, offered no real rebuttal. He remained entranced, his one accusation—'You're tearing the Ministry apart!'—as weak as it was laughable…"
Seamus declared, "Vaughn's a legend! My uncle hates Fudge—calls him the luckiest idiot to ever fall into office!"
Neville added, "My gran doesn't like him either."
Soon, the discussion turned to how Vaughn might topple Fudge entirely—leaving the Muggle-born Dean completely confused.
Meanwhile, Harry and Ron skimmed the entire report.
"Vaughn… actually united the werewolves."
They repeated the line, dumbfounded, while sitting at the Gryffindor table, scarfing down breakfast.
Ron, in disbelief, muttered, "I still can't believe it…"
Opposite them, Hermione—buried behind her paper—scowled.
"He didn't recruit them, Ronald. He's fighting for their rights."
Ron blinked. "Their what?"
The word didn't compute. In his mind, werewolves meant armies and dark forces.
"Just imagine it, Harry—thousands of werewolves. If Vaughn recruits them all… Merlin—!"
Hermione slammed the table.
"RONALD! I can't believe you're related to him. Vaughn is doing something noble—and you're still calling werewolves animals! And for your information, England doesn't have thousands of werewolves. According to Remus Lupin's interview, the number is closer to two thousand!"
Ron flushed red and fell silent.
Harry, meanwhile, was beginning to understand.
Raised in the Muggle world, he'd only ever thought of werewolves as monsters—thanks to Ron's tales of Fenrir Greyback and the pitiful newspaper accounts of self-exiled outcasts.
But now, he was beginning to realize…
"Prejudice is poison."
That line, buried in the article, hit him hard.
If even Ron instinctively treated werewolves like beasts, what about the rest of wizarding society? What had they been taught?
Harry finally understood what Vaughn was doing.
During breakfast, he kept rereading the paper—eventually folding it neatly and tucking it into his robes.
Ron noticed. "You gonna hang his photo above your bed next? Become a little fangirl?"
"...Shut up!"
Harry blushed and stood to leave.
"Wait—tonight, are you…?" Ron grabbed his arm and lowered his voice. "Are you going back to that mirror? Take me with you."
Harry frowned. "I thought you didn't want to see it again?"
He'd taken Ron to see the Mirror of Erised before. Ron had called it creepy—it showed him as Head Boy, the whole Weasley family clapping for him.
Ron looked away.
"I just want to see… one more time. Like dreaming, yeah?"
Harry hesitated.
He'd seen cases like this on Muggle TV—kids under pressure, jealousy turning to obsession…
He sighed. Then nodded.
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